


Crest and Crown

by theladybeatrice



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Gen, Past Abuse, Spoilers for S2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:01:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3411578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladybeatrice/pseuds/theladybeatrice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos had often been accused of not feeling.  The placid face, the wry curl of the lip, the mustache and beard carefully crafted to disguise reaction all contributed to the effect.  Leaning against a wall, or any available surface, really, gave off an air of nonchalance.  To those that did not know him, he seemed untouchable, far above the common man.  Those that knew him, knew differently, but those were few.  Aramis and Porthos, d’Artagnan and Treville could, to a varying degree, see beyond the surface, knew him well enough to interpret signs others missed.  Athos had worked hard, nearly all his life, to erase those signs, but he was only a man and men feel.  Despite his father’s assurances to the contrary, Athos had been cursed with a depth of feeling beyond most men.  His father did his best to cure such a curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The crest and crowning of all good, life’s final star, is Brotherhood  
\--Edwin Markham

Athos had often been accused of not feeling. The placid face, the wry curl of the lip, the mustache and beard carefully crafted to disguise reaction all contributed to the effect. Leaning against a wall, or any available surface, really, gave off an air of nonchalance. To those that did not know him, he seemed untouchable, far above the common man. Those that knew him, knew differently, but those were few. Aramis and Porthos, d’Artagnan and Treville could, to a varying degree, see beyond the surface, knew him well enough to interpret signs others missed. Athos had worked hard, nearly all his life, to erase those signs, but he was only a man and men feel. Despite his father’s assurances to the contrary, Athos had been cursed with a depth of feeling beyond most men. His father did his best to cure such a curse. 

Olivier d’Athos was only a boy when his mother died. All things bright and beautiful seemed to leave le Fere then. His father threw himself into the role of comte, his grief subverted into anger. Alcohol deadened what pain anger could not. Servants cowered, the people of Pinon avoided him as best they could, and two young boys watched through wide absorbing eyes. Thomas was merely young enough to observe what seemed to be the whole of his world reacting in cruelty and think it normal. Olivier learned to survive. 

Survival meant not showing feeling. Any indication of emotion was met with not only derision but anger at its mere existence. Feeling was a weakness. Affection, fear, fury all caused the same reaction, his father’s desire to beat any and all feeling back with physical aggression. The scar across Olivier’s lip was permanent testament to his father’s methods, a shard of shattered wine bottle catching the boy unaware as he pleaded unsuccessfully for mercy. 

As the months passed after his mother’s death, Olivier learned that having friends was only a detriment, to them and to him. His loyalty would be tested as the young servant boys of le Fere were punished unduly for imagined slights against the estate, and more often than not, sent away, sometimes with their families but more often not. Friendship with Olivier was indeed a hazardous proposition. 

“The only friends you need are those of your own station,” his father would glower. “And those are not to be trusted. You can only trust yourself.” 

Olivier began to hold himself apart from others, not wanting to endanger them physically or put their families’ livelihood in jeopardy. Thomas, of course, was the only one to slip past his defenses. Thomas’ relative innocence won over everyone, including their father. Thomas was generally safe from his aggression, and therefore, people were much freer with their affection in regard to him. Loving Thomas was easy; he was everyone’s favorite. Loving Oliver was dangerous; he was his father’s target. 

Oliver had eventually grown to hate his own name. It was generally sneered by his father, drawn out as a rebuke. Whatever he had done to disappoint, Olivier would bear the verbal berating first, doing his utmost to show as little feeling as possible. Then, the perceived nonchalance would serve to provoke physical violence as well. His name became a warning sign for hurt. It was no wonder, then, that he abandoned his name as soon as he had the chance. 

Upon his father’s death, Olivier became simply “Athos.” The servants rarely spoke his name anyway, calling him “Sir” to his face, “the Comte” in public, and God only knew in private. To other nobility, he became, by rights, “Comte de le Fere.” Thomas was actually the only person who really had to change what he called his brother. At first, Thomas laughed it off, saying “Athos” as a joke, but eventually it became habit. 

So “Athos” was the name that he shared with Anne, when she first came into their lives.

He should have known better, should have known not to trust anyone but himself. Anne, like Thomas, managed to slip past his defenses. When she arrived at le Fere, she knew nothing of his past nor his reputation. Her bright shining face looked up to him, not with fear, but with joy. That was a new sensation. There was no one left to bring retribution upon her for loving Athos, and he reveled in her willingness to love him. 

He was so dazzled by the essence of her that he overlooked the streak of cruelty underneath the shine. It was hidden well, emerging when she was tired, and could no longer support the façade. Occasionally, it emerged when she perceived an insult from someone she considered beneath her. But she would turn to Athos, eyes lowered beneath her lashes, and a secret smile to warm his heart, and he would forget. After all, he remembered vaguely how his mother managed to temper the fire in his father’s heart. Athos came to believe that he was destined to do the same for Anne. As long as he could keep her calm, there was no need for worry. How naïve he had been. 

Perhaps that same streak of cruelty lived in him and allowed him to pronounce Anne’s sentence after Thomas’s death. She tried her best to dazzle him, to make him forget, but he could not. He could not forget Thomas. His brother’s fiancé, Catherine, was the first to blame Anne for Thomas’ death. Anne had no proof that it was untrue. Catherine had never trusted Anne, and was far from impressed by her future sister-in-law. The two women would have had a hard time sharing life at the estate. Catherine let her pride in Athos’ sentence show in her cold eyes. Chillingly, that pride reminded Athos of his father. 

Leaving le Fere had not been difficult. He was numb by then, anyway. The feelings his father had tried so hard to discourage were gone now, after all. Anne’s betrayal chased it all away like his father’s cruelty never quite had. He fired what servants remained. He packed clothes and weapons for himself, locked the doors and turned his back on his life. Where he went, what he did, no longer mattered to him. He would not inflict himself on anyone else.


	2. Manipulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding across the open fields in search of a small town with a small inn gave Athos a much greater sense of peace than attending the funeral ever would have. He rode slightly ahead of his brothers, leading the way, and was therefore able to focus his thoughts on what the Cardinal’s death would mean for them all. Their lives would most certainly change, but whether it was for the better remained to be seen. France could do without the man’s slippery machinations, but then again, better the devil be known. Any sort of power vacuum in the French court would not exist for long. Just who, or what, slipped into the void would determine the course of the country for generations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Season 2, episode 1 "Keep Your Friends Close"

Athos was absurdly grateful that this mission had taken them out of Paris at such a fortuitous time. Going to the Cardinal’s funeral, even if only as protection for the grieving king, would have been the height of hypocritical. Athos would have gone, of course; he was a soldier and soldiers followed orders. But he would not have felt sadness nor regret at the loss of such a man. He wasn’t exactly elated, but he was certainly not grieving. 

Riding across the open fields in search of a small town with a small inn gave Athos a much greater sense of peace than attending the funeral ever would have. He rode slightly ahead of his brothers, leading the way, and was therefore able to focus his thoughts on what the Cardinal’s death would mean for them all. Their lives would most certainly change, but whether it was for the better remained to be seen. France could do without the man’s slippery machinations, but then again, better the devil be known. Any sort of power vacuum in the French court would not exist for long. Just who, or what, slipped into the void would determine the course of the country for generations. 

Athos paused on a hilltop just beyond the trees, allowing his brothers to catch up. Ahead of them lay a long gentle slope of waving grass in the bright sunlight, French countryside at its best. It had been long time since Athos had bothered to admire the landscape. There were always more pressing matters to be concerned with, but today, there was just a little more reason to be optimistic. Aramis pulled up on Athos’ left, Porthos just beside him, d’Artagnan on his right. 

“Gentlemen, I think it’s a good time to give the horses their head.” Athos allowed himself a small smirk. 

d’Artagan spoke up on a laugh, “last one to the bottom buys” and he was off down the slope with Athos just a hair’s breadth behind. Porthos’ delighted glee roared after them, while Aramis was just a bit too stunned to join in for a moment. Quickly, however, the four of them pounded down the hill, hair and capes flying behind. A grin spread across Athos face while he felt lighter than he had in ages. Only a nose separated d’Artagnan and Athos; Aramis arrived just behind. Porthos was still laughing even as he acknowledged his loss in the race and to his purse. 

“That was good!” Porthos exclaimed, swinging off his horse to join the others as they dismounted to walk, resting the horses after the unexpected run. 

“Exhilarating, my friend!” Aramis added. “Athos, what possessed you?” Athos merely gave a one-shouldered shrug in answer. 

Their conversation turned to the events of the day, most prominently, the Cardinal’s funeral. “They say he wore out his heart in the service of France.” Athos could not quite hide the sarcasm in his voice. 

“It’s a pleasant surprise to hear he had one at all.”

Athos’ grin was largely hidden by his beard and mustache. He absolutely adored d’Artagnan’s sense of humor and sass. The Gascon was finally coming back to himself months after Constance’s rejection. Athos had no doubt that d’Artagnan still loved her, but at least he was gaining the skill to function without her by his side. Athos himself had spent over five years learning to live without Anne. At least d’Artagnan seemed to have been spared that particular agony. 

Their attention was pulled away by signs of a lynching on the next hill. Upon discovering Rochefort, Athos was perfectly willing to walk away from the detestable man. And when the bastard repaid their rescue by stealing Athos’ horse, well, any empathy he might have held disappeared. Of course, Athos himself knew what it was to face his own death at the hands of an unforgiving mob. But riding behind d’Artagnan, hands steadying himself on the lad’s slim waist, Athos’ hatred for Rochefort only grew. Equal in court status and age, the two Comtes had had dealings with each other since childhood. As a grown man, Rochefort had proved troublesome enough for the Musketeers in general that even Porthos and Aramis hated him now. d’Artagnan respected all their opinions but Athos knew that he would stubbornly make up his own mind. Yet, this first introduction, including murder and horse thievery, seemed to have confirmed that d’Artagnan would share his brothers’ opinion.

Upon finding the thieving bastard, Athos took particular delight in punching him to the ground. It was necessary, he could later tell Treville, that he neutralize Rochefort in order to transport him safely. The personal way in which he chose to do so met with approval from his brothers. All, including d’Artagnan, nodded and smiled their assent, adding to Athos’ satisfaction. 

The trip back to Paris was made most annoying by Rochefort’s persistent whining, tied as he was between d’Artagnan and Aramis. This allowed Athos to watch him without being tempted to slowly tighten the ropes until, well, until the whining stopped. He could not resist the temptation, however, to declare that he understood the sentiment of those who wished to kill Rochefort. 

Once in Treville’s office, he saw that Treville shared the low opinion of Rochefort. Athos schooled his face to hide his contempt. Treville was not so stoic when dealing with Rochefort’s vile utterances. Only the mention of General de Foix saved Rochefort from the Bastille. Treville had no choice but to give in and escort Rochefort to the palace. Athos’ soul shivered to think that this man would soon have the opportunity to manipulate the king. He had no doubt that Rochefort would do exactly that.

At the palace, Rochefort put his manipulatory skills on broad display when facing down the Spanish ambassador. Having just escaped a Spanish prison, he probably did not have much respect for any Spaniard, but still, Rochefort was walking a fine line. It seems the bold move paid off when he was granted a private audience with the king. Athos and Treville exchanged a resigned look, but left the throne room as requested. 

In the antechamber, Treville dismissed them for a meal, but told them to return to the garrison in two hours. Retrieving Rochefort and then escorting him to the palace had indeed being exhausting, both mentally and physically. Athos was grateful to make his exit. He nodded to the others, thinking of a warm meal and relaxed company in a tavern. 

Heading down the stairs, they met first with the Bonacieux, three of them managing to sweep Constance’s husband away to give d’Artagnan a much-needed moment with her. Athos was actually quite proud of how they efficiently separated the cloth merchant from his grateful wife. He supposed their collective manipulation skills were the equal of Rochefort’s. 

After having deposited Monsieur Bonacieux at the public entrance, they continued on through the palace, heading for the stables. Athos sent Porthos ahead once he realized that Aramis had pealed off. He waited around the corner watching Aramis with the dauphin’s governess. He hadn’t even learned the woman’s name yet, but Aramis seemed to be flirting already. Only one of his brothers would be able to see that his attention was really elsewhere. The governess seemed impressed, but Athos knew his friend’s interest was actually on the babe in her arms. 

Aramis tried to play innocent at Athos’ approach, but he really should have known better. As it was, he stalled a bit for time, quickly realizing that while the governess might have been fooled, Athos was decidedly not. Instead, he went for sympathy, or at least empathy. He was partially successful, as Athos reached an arm around his shoulders, a rare display of public affection. 

“The dauphin is not your son, Aramis. He can never be your son, unless you confess to an act of treason and take the queen down with you.” Athos wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for Aramis to work in the palace or not. On the one hand, exposure to the queen and the dauphin might allow him to build up his defenses. On the other, it was constant temptation. Athos had never known Aramis to last long in the face of temptation.

At the garrison, Athos had the unnerving feeling of being unsure of his position. Treville, his captain, took charge of the meeting with Rochefort, and Athos was content with that. But Rochefort struggled with Treville for control. Everything in him screamed to put Rochefort in his place, but he would not embarrass his captain like that. When Treville declared that Athos was to be in charge of the mission, he knew that, while Rochefort gave his verbal acceptance, in practice, it would be another matter. If the man would argue with Treville, he was surely not going to give in easily to Athos. Once he left, Athos offered, “We could always arrange an unfortunate accident to happen on the road.” He had no idea how prophetic that statement would be.

On the road, Rochefort was annoying as ever, but did seem to acquiesce to Athos’ leadership. Athos, however, did not trust him. The others didn’t either, insisting that Rochefort ride in the middle of the group, Porthos strength behind him, and Aramis within firing range at the back. Athos had no doubt Rochefort would be troublesome, but at least they were all watching. 

Ordering d’Artagnan ahead to the castle was not pleasant, but necessary. Athos lived daily with the knowledge he might be ordering his brothers into danger, but that didn’t mean that he liked it. As it happened, he was glad d’Artagnan had left before the “unfortunate accident” materialized. Athos thought for several seconds that Rochefort was ready to shoot him and not the Spanish raiders. He was sure that the raiding party was watching for them, and equally sure that Rochefort had a part in it. Proof was another matter. Aramis tried his best to get answers from the dying Spaniard, but without success. The best with which he could console himself was that Aramis, Porthos, and he outnumbered Rochefort, for the time being. 

Finding d’Artagnan and de Foix alive in the castle was a relief, even if it looked like they had arrived just in time. The sister was something of a surprise, but at least she seemed to be sensible, and not hysterical (slapping d’Artagnan notwithstanding). Her suggestion of a back entrance had proved fortuitous, and she kept her head while they made their way out. She reminded Athos a little bit of Constance, not in coloring, but in temperament. 

Leaving the castle with de Foix, his sister, and the governor in tow was slightly different than the original plan, but at least they all reached the ravine alive. Crossing back into France would not be easy, but they had a head start on the Spanish. Then, for the second time in as many hours, Athos was certain Rochefort was going to shoot him. This time he felt the ball whiz past his arm. He still wasn’t sure if Rochefort’s aim was truly at the Spaniard behind him or if Rochefort’s aim was truly that bad. Whatever the case, Athos decided to use the incident to his advantage. 

“You saved my life.” Athos schooled his features into a calm picture of innocence. His sincerity would never be doubted, at least by anyone who didn’t know him well. Porthos and Aramis, and probably even d’Artagnan by now, would have scoffed at the idea, but Rochefort seemed, if not convinced, at least begrudgingly accepting. Athos had literally learned this skill at his father’s knee. A certain cool politeness was necessary when addressing fellow members of the Court. Any number of vile things could spill from the mouth as long as the tone was right. As a boy, Athos had detested this sort of deception. As a musketeer, he found it to be a useful skill at times. He could slip on the persona of a Comte as simply as his cloak. He had once used it on the Cardinal, letting him know that he would find the connection between the female assassin and the person who hired her. Deference masked the steel in his voice, and wide eyes with a slight upward curve to the lips appeared virtuous when Athos’ thoughts were anything but. Today, he put to use the same effect on the Comte de Rochefort. Unnerving the Comte was the best he could do at the moment, but it was enough to send the message that Rochefort would not have an easy time of it. 

The return trip to the garrison was somewhat easier this time. The death of the Spanish governor and the injury of de Foix cast a somber pall over the group. Even Rochefort was quiet for once, perhaps trying to disguise his involvement in whatever plot they seemed to be playing into. 

After they had seen de Foix into the garrison infirmary (why it was not on the ground level, Athos would never understand), he had just returned to the balustrade only to spy d’Artagnan with Lucie de Foix on the landing. He paused, not wanting to interrupt what seemed to be an important moment. His first vision of the woman had been of her slapping his protégé. Things seemed to have changed along the trip to Paris. She had fallen, exhausted, into sleep against d’Artagnan’s back while they rode. The Gascon kept one arm tightly around hers to hold her in place and perhaps the situation had created a feeling of intimacy between the pair. Athos leaned back against the infirmary’s outside wall, not necessarily wanting to watch what transpired, but captivated nonetheless. 

Athos couldn’t hear the quiet conversation, but his suspicions were confirmed when Lucie leaned forward to kiss d’Artagnan. A smile graced Athos’ lips, pleased for d’Artagnan, especially when the Gascon leaned into her for a second kiss before she left. Athos stood and walked as if he had just exited the door, passing Lucie on the balustrade with a respectful nod, but before he began down the steps, he took a sharp inhale at what he saw. Constance was standing in the yard, and from the look on her face, she had witnessed exactly the same scene as Athos. d’Artagnan was just as oblivious to her presence as he was to Athos’. Knowing this did not bode well, Athos, once again, slid into the shadows against the wall. 

Constance was much more distraught and her words much louder. It was easy for Athos to hear, however unwilling, as the pair argued in the yard. Athos had known, and cared for, Constance even longer than he had d’Artagnan. His heart clenched as he heard the distressing description of her situation and her reasons for refusing d’Artagnan. She was absolutely right, however heartbreaking her opinions might be. Athos bit his lower lip to keep from groaning out loud when he heard d’Artagnan call her a coward. He knew that came from a place of pain, but whether or not the Gascon believed it, it would still devastate Constance. 

After she left, d’Artagnan remained alone in the yard, head hung down. His black hair created a curtain to hide his face. He did not react as Athos came down the steps. In a rare display of temper, Athos slapped him lightly on the back of the head, just enough to get his attention. d’Artagnan looked up, anger on his face quickly falling into chagrin when he realized what happened. “You heard that, then.”

“Yes, sadly so. You know she speaks the truth.” 

d’Artagnan nodded, but was unable to meet Athos in the eye. “I know, but…” and was incapable of finishing his sentence. When he did raise his eyes (but not really his head), Athos quirked an eyebrow at him.

“It was not honorable.” 

“No,” d’Artagnan all but whispered. 

Sighing, Athos placed a palm between d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Come, my friend. There is work to be done.” With that, he hoped d’Artagnan would find some solace in labor and think how to best repair the damage. 

They headed across to the stables, joining Aramis and Porthos in their chores. A mere hour later, an unknown priest arrived to retrieve Aramis, claiming a message from the Cardinal. Even in death, that man refused to leave the Musketeers alone. When Aramis started to follow the man from the yard, Athos and Porthos were momentarily stunned. Athos recovered, fearing this had something to do with the queen, and realizing Porthos must be kept safe from it. He volunteered to go, cheerily patting Porthos on the arm, hoping the big man did not see through his façade. 

When they arrived at the crypt underneath the Cardinal’s favorite chapel, Aramis was playing at nonchalance, expecting a letter or a verbal warning. Athos grasped the meaning first, eyes quickly the reading the names on the wall, knowing he might need to identify this place later. He was shocked to see Adele’s name engraved in the stone. His own anger was as great as Aramis’ as the priest declared she had died for the sin of loving Aramis. How dare this man of God put such a reprehensible idea in his brother’s heart! It was only designed to cause pain, and Athos blamed both the Cardinal and this miserable priest. He shoved the man out of the gate with barely restrained violence, all the while placing his body between the priest and Aramis. He couldn’t let Aramis continue to lay hands on the man; it would surely expose Aramis and all his secrets. He would always protect his brother. 

“Every woman I truly love dies.”

“All the more reason to stay away from the queen, and the dauphin.” It was cruel in this moment, but Athos had to say it. He had to protect Aramis, and if that meant temporary pain, so be it. Aramis’ fingers dragged down the surface of Adele’s gravestone, followed by Aramis himself as his knees gave way. He slid to a clump on the floor, tears silently running down, his face against the stone. Athos came forward to sit next to him, and pulled Aramis into his arms. Gently, he moved Aramis’ head off the stone wall and onto his chest, lending him warmth and human contact. Athos dipped his chin into Aramis’ curls and wondered when the emotional blows of this day would stop coming. 

The next morning, after de Foix’s death, the mood at the training yard table was somber. Instead of sitting in their usual tight-knit group, the four of them spread across the length of the table, each lost to his own thoughts, oblivious of Treville doing the same above them on the balustrade. 

“I thought our world would be safer,” Athos lamented. The Cardinal was gone but still seemed to manipulating them from beyond the grave. Rochefort had slithered into his place, and seemed to be creating even more chaos than his predecessor. Their efforts at rescuing the general had only cost him his life. Those that dared offered them love had only received pain in recompense. The optimism of that sunny race down the hill seemed ages ago, a naïve trust that the world would be put to rights. 

Athos wandered away from the table, not wishing to inflict his mood on the others.


End file.
